


Sway

by Konstantinsen



Category: RWBY
Genre: Bonding, Dancing, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Gen, Romance, Romantic Friendship, Slow Dancing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-23
Updated: 2019-10-04
Packaged: 2020-10-26 18:07:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20746496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Konstantinsen/pseuds/Konstantinsen
Summary: Hiding in an Atlas nightclub can get rather uncomfortable. One has to endure the revelry, the other teaches her to flow with it. A veteran cracks under the ice while his rival starts to melt. Others come to grips with their reality now that the world they knew has changed irrevocably.





	1. Whenever I'm alone with you

Ruby Rose fiddles with the hem of her dress. The frills and the heels bring back memories of a similar time at Beacon Academy, when she once thought heroes were invulnerable. There had been music, there had been lights, and there had always been the annoying necessity for a partner in a blasted ritual that many of her contemporaries delighted in: dancing.

Alas, that was near a year ago when the world still made sense. Yet here she stands, on the mezzanine of a seedy Atlesian night club overlooking a crowd of party-goers gyrating their hips and throwing their hands about to the beats of some repetitive techno-pop song that made her ears itch. She frowns at the revelry below and backs away to the bar hoping to spend time with her team.

To her abject horror, she finds the bar empty. Her teammates had gone their own ways. Yang and Blake and Weiss had left her be without a word. The traitors.

“Ruby?”

Ruby twirls to face Jaune Arc coming up the steps, himself dressed appropriately for the night. Unlike the silky gimmick he pulled back at Beacon, he was in a more suitable mix of loose jeans and a suit over a polo shirt. She smiles at him, at least relieved that she was not on her lonesome this evening. Just like old times back in Beacon.

“What are you doing up here?” he asks her.

“Getting away from it all,” she answers him.

They both seat themselves on adjacent stools by the bar. The barman eyes them slyly as he goes through the rack for something to mix.

Jaune nudges her. “Not interested in taking the floor?”

“You know me. I don't dance.” Ruby gestures at the dark stilettos that were the nightmares of her soles. “Especially not in these...”

“Huh. Yeah. I kinda forgot.”

“Why're you up here?”

He shrugs. “Ren and Nora wanted some private time.”

“Oh.”

They wait until the barman presents them their drinks. Non-alcoholic milkshakes with crushed strawberries. Ruby takes a sip through her straw and watches Jaune do the same. She notes the calmness about him. No longer the insecure student she blundered into back at Beacon and no more the insecure fighter nipping at healing scars on the road to Mistral. Yet, despite these changes, he still is her friend.

Ruby stares at her drink and marvels at how much has changed over the past year that she had known him. Different but the same.

“How're you feeling?” she asks him.

“Never better,” he answers with a toothy grin.

“You're feeling chipper.”

“You should too. This is a nightclub. Best place to unwind.”

She scowls at that. This nightclub was the only place in the seediest district of this seedy Atlesian border city that could efficiently hide them from the wrath of General Ironwood (or the entire Council). Until Qrow and Ozpin—when he finally comes out of his shell in the corners of Oscar's mind—would assuage his furor, there was no other safer option but to remain on the premises as patrons. At least the owners were understanding. Of course, they were also favorable to a big donation to their pockets straight from the pockets of a Schnee to let them stay for as long as they wished.

“You know, that would be Yang's line,” she corrects him.

Jaune laughs a little. “Yeah. I think she's rubbing off on me.”

Ruby finds herself a tad uneasy at that thought. “Yang? Rubbing off on you? How much time have you been spending around her?”

“About the same as I do you. And Weiss. And Blake. And everyone else.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And you need to unwind. Can't stay up here all night, every night.”

“I can and I will.”

Jaune regards her with a glint in his eye. “Not tonight.”

“What?” She sees him grab her wrist faster than she expects of him. She tugs against him only to be dragged off the stool and down the mezzanine to the dance floor. Despite her superior capability as a Huntress, she found herself relenting. “Jaune, what are you doing!? Let go! I am _not _dancing!”

“Come on, Rubes,” he insists, pulling her into the crowd of revelers all throwing their arms and heads about. “Just a little bit. This is a fast track which means a lot of people on the floor so no one would notice you letting loose for a couple seconds.”

Ruby protests only to find herself stranded in a sea of roisterers. Flashing disco lights, clouds of dry ice from the smoke machines, perfume, sweat, and the deafening thumping of techno-pop music running at over a hundred and fifty beats per minute. It is too much for her and she grabs onto the nearest person for support: Jaune.

“Whoa, there!” He grips her arms and rights her. “I almost fell!”

“Why'd you bring me out here, dummy!?”

Jaune laughs and guides her hands away from his chest. He leads her along to the beat. “So you could do this, dummy.”

She squeaks as she nearly loses her footing. She struggles to balance on her heels and fights to avoid stepping on his shoes or anyone else's. One leg over the other, a foot behind his, her hands rising up and down and her hips swaying unevenly throughout. Strands of her hair smack against her cheeks but there is neither room nor time to brush her face, especially with Jaune taking her on a roller coaster of a dance number.

She would not admit it but she is getting the hang of it. Her body slips into the tempo and she finds she no longer needs him to frame her moves. She gyrates on her own and the pain in her soles numbs. Her hands slip from his and wave over her head.

Jaune nods along, a wide grin on his face as he moves with her, himself a hypnotic tornado of moves that would stop a professional in his tracks. Together, the two of them become one with the crowd. Smiling. Laughing. Dancing. Dictating the flow.

The music reaches its peak, the drum beats multiplying in a crescendo, and Ruby and Jaune stand in stunned silence at the sudden end to the track. The lights dim and the crowd cheers. The DJ barks something incomprehensible over the speakers while he replaces the track with a new one.

“Jaune,” Ruby mutters, her confidence gone. “Jaune, where's everyone going?”

“Uh, back to their seats?” he replies uneasily.

The stage lights burst in force once more, centering attention on them—the two patrons occupying the center stage. The revelers had dispersed to form a watching crowd around them. Curious eyes and smug faces, some raising their half-filled glasses, others pulling out their scrolls to record.

“Oh crap,” he whispers.

“What do you mean, 'oh crap'!?” she hisses up at him.

The DJ's voice booms across the speakers, distorted but intelligible now. “Give it up for our lucky couple of the night!”

Cheers and hoots erupt around them. Ruby, her cheeks on fire, shrinks into Jaune. Her hands wrap tight around his neck while she presses herself against his chest. Jaune, for his part, functions akin to a deer caught in headlights; he waves awkwardly at the audience. He glances around, hoping for some semblance of salvation from this embarrassment, when he sees the DJ give a thumbs up before starting the track.

Gods, a slow song.

Ruby doesn't recognize it but Jaune does. He flinches and glances down at her apologetic. “Um, at least you learned to, uh, dance?”

“What?”

“Look, just follow my lead, okay? This is a slow number so, um, it wouldn't be too hard. It'll be easier to catch the beat. You with me?”

She nods frantically. She despises the attention from the crowd. She wants to activate her Semblance and disappear into her quarters upstairs. Instead, she finds herself accepting his hands and moving to the rhythm. She commands her legs to turn around yet only feels her soles press against the stilettos to follow Jaune's footwork on the dance floor.

Click. Forward. Clack. Backward.

Unlike the rapid, dizzying, frenzied mess beforehand, this one was easier to follow.

“You're doing good, Rubes,” Jaune mutters into her ear. “You're doing good.”

She nods back. She catches the melody; a mesmerizingly beautiful tune. A song about distance, about loyalty, about...love?

Her mind stops at the lyrics proclaiming said emotion.

“Eep!” She trips. She braces for the floor. Strong, soft arms wrap under her, twirling her majestically until she opens her eyes to Jaune's face. Ruby does not tear away until he swings her back up to her feet. Smooth.

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” she pants. She expects guidance to where her hands would go. Instead, her fingers find their way up to his collar on their own, ultimately resting on his shoulders.

“O-okay th-then,” he stammers. His hands slide down, coming to rest on her waist.

Together, they catch up to the chorus. Their hips sway. And their steps match. Then the spectra changes and Ruby is left breathless. Once or twice or perhaps a dozen times in the time they shared together, she had stopped to admire Jaune for who he was. His physique, his loyalty, his friendship... Now, with the disco lights aligning, she is powerless against the hauntingly blue eyes gazing down at her.

A maturing chin, bearing a rough growing stubble, and tuft of blonde hair combed clean. The feel of his toned muscles on her fingers, his encouraging grin, his enrapturing scent...

Oh gods, his cologne was so strong! She wonders if some of that is his natural musk and not some pungent aroma in a bottle. She does not mind inching closer to take a better whiff. In her reverie, her ears fall deaf to the noise of her audience. Only the music, the lyrics, and his words come through.

“Um, you look really good tonight, Rubes,” he says with an uneven smile.

“Th-thanks,” she replies with a weak chuckle. “You're looking, uh, sh-sharp yourself.”

“Yeah, heh, uh, thanks.” He bites his lip as he sways along. “Y'know, you're...you're really cute.”

Her heart stops at that moment. Her lips part wide. “... Thanks. Y-you're cute, too...”

He brings her close and smiles at her. “I think...I think you're more than cute.”

“You think so?” she wonders aloud.

Jaune gulps. “Y-yeah. You know, I think you're...I think you're beautiful. You're a very beautiful girl, Ruby.”

She glances away this time. She stares at the bright blue glass panels of the floor while she moves along with him. “Wow. Thanks, Jaune! I've...I've never... No one's really told me that before...”

“Other than your dad?”

She snaps back at him with a scowl. “Ugh, don't make this weird!”

He smirks. “And this isn't weird?”

Ruby folds and realizes too late that she had locked her fingers behind his neck. She wiggles a little only to feel him do the same behind her waist. She thinks this is weird but a part of her argues against it; it feels magical. “... Dummy.”

“What? What did I do?”

“You're a dummy,” she insists. “A big, blonde dummy.”

“Aww, Rubes. I'm not that bad.”

“You made me dance.”

“You know you could stop at any time. Our table is right there.”

She bites her lip. “... I don't want to stop.”

He stares at her. “What? Y-you don't?”

“Jaune, I...” She stops herself. And stares back up at him. “I...I really like...I really, really like to...”

He stops. Blinks. The music reaches its climax. A still quiet hangs for the brief measure over the whole dance floor. “Ruby?”

“I really like you.”

The audience, muted by their own excitement, lets out a cheerful roar. The DJ's voice rings over the speakers, harking something about being adorable but the two former students of Beacon Academy care less at this point. The truth that they came to understand between them was stunning.

Only after the music returns for the coda does Jaune open his mouth. “You do?”

Ruby hides her face in the buttons of his polo shirt. “Y-yeah...”

“Huh.”

“I...I like to dance with you some more...”

“Th-that would be nice.”

They sway together in perfect rhythm until the song ends and they stop. Yet they do not disengage from each other. Their arms are locked and their legs are frozen over the neon floor. It takes a patron nudging them on the shoulder to reel them back into reality. The crowd is converging on the floor now for the second slow number.

By then, Ruby and Jaune realize they had displayed too much. Embarrassment heats up their cheeks. Too many knowing nods, several smug grins, pats, and well-wishes from the patrons had them ushering themselves out to their table under the mezzanine and wishing they could hide in the thick umbras of the disco lights.

Shrouded in the dark, Ruby reaches out and squeals when fingers lace with hers. She glances up and discerns Jaune's face peering back at her. He smiles. She smiles.

“So...that was something,” he stammers.

She nods. “Uh-huh. It was something...really good.”

“You really are cute, y'know that?”

“Yeah. You too.”

Their hands pile in a knot over the table mat. Jaune clears his throat. “Did you...do you... D'you really mean it? Th-that you, uh, really like me?”

Ruby forces herself to answer. Better to straighten this knot in her stomach. “I-I don't want this to, y'know, get in the way of our m-mission so I had to s-say it there...”

Silence for only a moment. Then Jaune reaches over and cups her cheek. “Ruby. It won't.”

She holds her breath, savoring his touch.

“Whatever you're feeling about me, about us...” He glances away to address something within him. When he returns to her, his voice carries a greater conviction. “... I feel the same way.”

Ruby beams. Her heart leaps up in her chest and she has to squeeze her legs together to keep from leaping over the table to hug him fully. For now, she squeezes his hands and blinks away a tear she thought wouldn't flow.

“Dummy,” she squeaks.

“Dork,” he quacks.

“Vomit Boy.”

“Crater Face.”

They laugh. They share the bottle of light wine on their table. And for the first time since they set out on their journey many months ago, they recognize the mutuality between them becoming far beyond platonic.

* * *

**“_Whenever I'm alone with you_**

** _You make me feel like I am home again_ **

** _Whenever I'm alone with you_ **

** _You make me feel like I am whole again”_ **

**_~ 'Love Song' by _311**

* * *

**ORIGINALLY DRAFTED: September 20, 2019**

**LAST EDITED: September 23, 2019**

**INITIALLY UPLOADED: September 23, 2019**

**Lancaster Week (Day Seven) theme: '_Romance_'**

**NOTE: Cheesy as hell, I know.**


	2. We're goin' down

Qrow Branwen leans against the railing of the mezzanine and downs the rest of his liquor. The music ends and he watches dryly the party-goers relax on the dance floor. He raises a brow when he spots his niece being dragged into the mix by her blonde friend who she so fancies. He knows Ruby hates dancing and he feels an urge to swoop down there and drag her back up. However, he admires Jaune for doing what Yang has been trying to do for years: bringing Ruby out of her shell.

Even with the world ending and reality smearing its shit-stained ass-wipes on their faces, his niece still hides behind the same old walls she had put up long ago. He snickers when Ruby flails and radiates pride when she starts to enjoy the dumb rave.

The staccato of heels against marble brings him back to the bar where Winter Schnee, freshly arrived from wherever she had been in this least reputable city, ignores him in favor of her Strawberry Sunrise.

The barkeep notices him and nods. Qrow nods back. He slides onto the vacant stool beside her. The Huntsman is mostly silent, swirling the last of his alcohol in his glass. He stays there until the disco track reaches its bombastic end and the DJ goes on his spiel for the next song on his line-up. Qrow places his now empty glass on the bar and signals at the barkeep for another bottle. By the time his drink arrives, he notices Winter cradling her beverage, rooted firmly to her seat. He chances a glance. And sees that she is far from her normally reserved self.

So he breaks the ice. “You're not gonna finish that?”

She flashes him a bright glare and one that is marred with loose strands of her hair twirling over her eyes. “You have yours.”

Qrow exhales. At least she's on speaking terms. He wonders for the dozenth time what has gone on with her since the Fall of Beacon. This Winter was more...stressed. Then again, given her line of work and how she is practically married to her job, that was self-explanatory. “That Sunrise is setting.”

Winter huffs. “Seriously, Branwen? A pick-up line?”

He smirks. “Was it?”

“I don't have time for this.”

Qrow raises a brow when Winter makes no effort to leave, instead turning her head away and endowing him with her back, the bare skin of her neck left exposed by the limits of her blazer. He has no quips for attire; he had expected her to enter the club in anything more casual than her drab military uniform. Though her dress, bonnet, and heels do little to conceal her as a Schnee. As though the owners are not aware of who she was and why she has free reign to do as she pleases on their premises; Winter shelters her own connections, after all.

“Rough day, huh,” he starts.

Winter barely moves.

Qrow refills his glass and savors the bitter taste of whiskey on the rocks. “Do you ever relax?”

She scoffs. “Should I take that as a concealed insult?”

“Depends. Your grumpy ass blows your whole cover...if you even had one coming in here.”

She swirls on her stool to glare daggers at him. “I'm not here on a mission, Branwen.”

“Oh? Then what are you here for? All dolled up like that?”

Winter bites her lip. Her free hand reaches up to pull her blazer tighter around herself while the other cradles her drink. “... Let me be. I've no time for games right now.”

Qrow does so. For five seconds. “Something on your mind?”

She nearly slams her glass on the bar top. “Why do you care all of a sudden?”

“Is there a rule that says I shouldn't?”

Three steady breathes follow until Winter gets up to leave with her drink. Her heels pound on the marble then suddenly stop short of the exit to the outdoor balcony. Her attention is directed elsewhere, down the rail, to the dance floor.

Qrow is curious and glances at the barkeep who merely shrugs while he cleans an empty cup. It takes him a second to notice the change in the atmosphere. The bright lights dim to solemn hues and center on the stage while the speakers vibrate a slow tune: a familiar melody that he has heard many times before on one too many intimate nights.

He carries his bottle to where Winter stands. Whether or not she notices him, she does not show it. He follows her gaze. And he stops breathing for a bare second.

“Huh.”

“Your niece,” Winter says.

“I know,” Qrow mutters.

The two of them watch silently as Ruby Rose and Jaune Arc sway slowly, wrapped up in each other and never turning away. The crowd has surrendered the floor to them though the pair do not stray too far from the center. The signs between them are unmistakeable. Qrow sees Winter recognize those signs with a face full of regret. He glances back down to catch the words escaping his niece's lips.

For a moment, he grips the bottle hard. Slow, steady breathes. Then he takes a swig to drown down the bitter protest that comes with the fact that Ruby is already old enough to understand what she's saying. And that he is too old to interfere.

“They are...cute,” Winter remarks.

“Yeah,” Qrow grunts. “Reminds me of...things.”

For the first time in the night, she looks to him with nary a hint of neither malice nor contempt. “Reminds you of what?”

For the first time in a long time, he barely has the strength to meet her in the eye. “What could've been.”

She raises her chin. “I see.”

Qrow huffs. “I'm not here to piss you off, Winter. I'm here to relax. Maybe you should too.”

“Was I not?”

He glazes over her. “You're not acting like it.”

She frowns and makes for the outdoor balcony. “Then you clearly don't know me.”

Qrow stays and watches her vanish into the freezing Atlesian night. He chugs the bottle and returns to watching his niece and her long-time crush waltz awkwardly until that stupid, cheesy, painfully accurate love song finally reaches its end. He smiles at their stammering and laughs a little when they hurry through the crowd to their little dark corner underneath him.

“Kids,” he sniggers to himself. “I used to be one...”

Qrow wishes he was still younger while he swishes the rest of his drink. He looks once more to the door and sees Winter's form, her bonnet in her hand, her bun undone, and her white hair flowing freely in the seasonal breeze. She gazes up at the evening sky, her shoulders rising with every deep breathe she takes. How she could stand the cold in those clothes, he could only chalk up to her Atlesian blood.

“And you still want to be one, huh, Winter,” he mutters to no one.

* * *

She is lounging against the bannister when he edges out onto the balcony. No one but them is lingering out here. How convenient.

Winter does not flinch when Qrow slumps beside her. She tries to ignore him despite her brief glances over her shoulder.

“In case no one ever told you,” he mutters. “You look beautiful tonight.”

“Branwen—”

“That's a compliment.”

She turns to him. She studies him, scrutinizing for deceit, malice, or any of his characteristic cynicism that has more than once driven her to lash out in behavior unbecoming. She finds none of the sort. Instead, she reads the same regret she feels plastered over his face. Even when he idly gazes down at the light snow piling on the pavement below, she still reads the remorse plain as day.

“Going without that bun does you a lot of favors,” he adds.

Winter is shocked to see that she agrees with him on that. “It was constricting.”

Red eyes rake over her form. “I like your get-up.”

She stifles a choke. A part of her is convinced this is all a charade for something to rile her up later on. Yet, for all her distrust of the man beside her, there was no helping the flutter within her. Her response comes out stiff. “Thank you.”

Qrow grunts. “Do you know how to dance?”

Winter recoils. “Wh-what are you—!? Of course, I know how to dance!”

He sniggers. “When was the last time you did?”

“... I don't recall. It's irrelevant.”

“Come on, Ice Queen,” Qrow prods. “Not like your last one was embarrassing.”

“Why are you so curious anyway?” she deflects.

“Because I'm curious, that's why.”

Frustration makes Winter motion to pull on her hair but she keeps her hands planted on her hips. “If you want me to relax, then leave me alone so I can relax!”

He shakes his bottle. “Sorry, Ice Queen. I need to be with someone to relax.”

“You are insufferable.”

“I'm good company.”

“Why...” She pauses. “... Why are you even pestering me when your job is practically over and done with!?”

Qrow picks out his words in his head then tempers his tone. “Because I'm too old for some people and too young for some people. Sound familiar?”

It does. Winter hates to admit that she her age both robs her of the proper words to connect with her sister and denies her opportunities to understand what truly drives the world to be what it is. She hides her reaction a second too late. When she turns around, she is cornered by the older Huntsman. Interestingly, she does not shove him back.

Her voice comes out a hiss. “What do you want?”

“I want to know how you're doing,” he answers calmly.

She turns away and cups her elbows. “Why do you care?”

“Because I just do.”

“That's not the only reason.” Winter brings her arms up over her chest and waits for his reply. Strangely, she is met with silence. Unexpectedly, she hears him give a long sigh. She turns to him once again and is surprised by the utter defeat she reads on him. Everything from his eyes to his shoulders to his posture; it was that of a man who had given up hope on everything yet strives to continue on despite the inevitable.

“Yeah. That ain't the only reason,” answers the Qrow Branwen she never knew.

She exhales at the hollowness in his voice. “... This is unlike you.”

He snorts. “You think?”

“Is there...is there something wrong?”

“There's always something wrong.”

She takes minor offense. “I was only asking.”

Qrow takes a long swig and leans on the railing. “Jimmy never told you, huh.”

“_General _Ironwood never informed me of what, Branwen?” she hisses.

“That the world is going to end and there ain't fuck all that we can do about it?”

Winter stares disbelievingly at him. “What are you on?”

“Vodka, whiskey, gin, and a bit o' good ole moonshine.”

“Don't play with me, Branwen.”

“I have a first name, you know.”

She is exasperated. Her hands slam on the railing. “What has gotten into you, Qrow?”

He laughs. More at himself than at her retort. The bottle is near empty now and he considers chucking it. Instead, he offers it to her. There is some left, after all. When she declines with folded arms, he empties it and sets it on the floor. “The truth has gotten into me, Winter. I don't like it. And it doesn't like me, apparently.”

She furrows her brow. “What do you mean 'truth'?”

He takes a step away from her. He starts to swagger. “Dance with me and I'll tell you.”

Winter is unamused. “Is this another one of your games?”

Qrow chortles, mirth replacing his underlying vitriol. In his hand is his scroll and he sets it on the bench. A song starts playing. An abrupt intro with the whole band: lead, bass, drums. It is slow and sleazy. He adjusts his coat and extends his hand towards her. “Milady?”

Her natural instinct is to swat it away. The man was drunk, uncultured, and irreverent. Yet, he was also honest, uncompromising, and...amicable. Contrary to her distaste of him, she accepts him with great hesitation. “I haven't...danced in a while.”

He leads her on. “No better time to get back into it.”

Winter despises him. She wants nothing to do with him. However, she could not help letting herself match his footwork on the marble. Her heels click in rhythm with the patters of his shoes. A part of her fights against it, against him. The rest of her clings on. Her fingers are tight around his hands and she presses herself close to his chest that the scent of alcohol is near overpowering.

Qrow, for his part, does not waver. His steps are graceful to a point. He keeps to the beat and does not step out of rhythm. He tugs and flows with her as does she him.

The crescendo comes and the Huntsman is surprised to feel something wet on his chest. He hears her whimper and stops to give space between them.

Winter is crying.

Soft hiccups at first. Then uneven moans. Until she is sobbing against the fabric of his polo shirt. She stops moving and her weight pushes against him. Her shoulders quake while her fingers wrap tightly over his.

Qrow sighs.

For all his philandering ways, he has yet to understand why women feel the need to weep at the most unexpected times. She had never asked for the revelation that broke him. Additionally, he had said nary a word since the first step invoked by the first notes of the song.

He does not know why she weeps but he has a general idea of what is running through her mind right now. He believes she knows. She would not have melted the way she did had not General Ironwood water down the truth he had shared to him hours ago in his office aboard command vessel of the Atlesian Fleet. Being who she is and how hard she works, he is not at all surprised that Winter possesses the clearance to be in the know now that the situation is more dire than when Beacon still stood.

Qrow understands her turmoil: everything she has worked for, everything she fights for, everything she believes in...shattered to pieces and rendered irredeemable by the impending doom that they now feel powerless to stop.

He sees her pain. The ugliness of her upbringing and the coldness of her life are laid bare against his chest. Winter is not one to show weakness and tonight is where he finds that she can release her agony without fear of being seen as ineffective. Incapable. Ignorable. Weak.

But she is not weak to him.

“The world's going to end,” he tells her. “Salem...you know who she is?”

She nods between sniffles.

He sighs. “Guess I don't have to tell you everything twice.”

“If this,” she whimpers, “...if this is how we...I... Why are we even trying?”

Qrow wraps his arms around her while they continue to sway. “Because it's better than doing nothing.”

She is smart enough to know the depths of his words. Better to continue laboring against the inevitable for the sake of those who still cherish what is left. Winter breathes in and thinks of better memories with Weiss and the little coterie of friends that still warms her world.

The veteran Huntsman leans down to her ear. “I ain't goin' down fighting.”

She whimpers back. She grips his hands to tell him that she wants to fight too.

“If Salem wins,” he tells her, “fuck it. I'm going down my way. And I'm going down hurting that bitch as much as I can.”

Winter gathers herself to meet his determination with a bit of her own. “I stand with you on that regard.”

He wipes her cheeks and sees her smile. Now this is the Winter he knows and can resonate with. So he dances on, her steps complimenting his. Their footwork is slow, graceful. When the chorus rings again for the final time, she sobs once more. Qrow lets her cry into his chest until after the song ends and his scroll goes silent. But that is fine. He stands there, content to hold her in his arms until she feels better. And, maybe, even him too.

* * *

**“_We're goin' down_**

** _And you can see it too_ **

** _We're goin' down_ **

** _And you know that we're doomed_ **

** _My dear, we're slow dancing in a burnin' room”_ **

**_~ 'Slow Dancing In A Burning Room' by _John Mayer**

* * *

**ORIGINALLY DRAFTED: September 21, 2019**

**LAST EDITED: October 4, 2019**

**INITIALLY UPLOADED: October 4, 2019**

**NOTE: **Another cheesy one because why not. If this chapter conflicts with Volume 7, it's because this was conceived well before the Volume 7 trailer came out.****


End file.
